When in Minneapolis last spring, I got to talking with Kristem about Chile. And his annual gig there judging.
"Can you wangle me a judging spot? I've never been to South America."
"Sure, Ron, no problem."
Kristen sounded very confident. I wasn't so certain. But sure enough, a month or so later the organisers of
Copa Cervezas de América got in touch. Cool. I was going to South America. And it wasn't ebven going to cost me anything. Well, drinking money. How much could that run to?
Dolores was slightly more concerned. "Don't get yourseld kidnapped or killed, Ronald."
"Don't worry, I've looked it up on the internet. Santiago is perfectly safe. At least by South American standards.
It turned out to be one of the most fun trips I've had in years. Someone else had organised everything and all I had to do was hang around and drink with a bunch of international pissheads.
Chile here I come
"Don't get drunk before you get on the plane." Chance would be a fine thing.
I'm sensible at Schiphol. Limiting myself to a medium Heineken - not super cold - and a double Jamesons. So far so good.
It's yonks since I was last in Charles de Gaulle. I'd forgotten how shit
it was. Like Alphaville without the laughs. And I’ve five hours to kill
there. I was really paranoid about missing the connection and
deliberately left myself several hours.
There's nothing as normal as a bar at the terminal I'm in. Tell a lie,
there is a caviar and champagne bar. Hardly any food options, either. I
end up eating at Yo Sushi. It’s OK, but not great. And by waiting
between plates I can run down the clock. I have a couple of beers. Which
are pretty ridiculously expensive.
With a few hours still to kill, I resort to getting in a few cans of
Kronenbourg 1664 in a shop. And sit glumly at my gate sipping them and
reading Private Eye.
The flight is over 14 hours. But there are films to watch and I’ve got
loads of legroom. I even manage to squeeze in a couple of hours of
fitful sleep. Definitely better than getting none.
When I’ve passed immigration and picked up my bag, I walk through to
landside. There’s a huge scrum around the exit. So much that I have to
push my way through. Eventually I spot a bloke with a beard holding up a
card with my name on it. He’s got Stan Hieronymus and John Roberts,
owner of
Max’s Lager in Atlanta, with him.
The driver walks incredibly quickly, despite carrying some of our bags. I
struggle to keep up with him. But soon we’re speeding through the
suburbs, bound for our hotel in Providencia, a posh part of the city.
It’s a lovely, sunny day with a clear azure sky. Unless you look closer
to the horizon, where it has a brownish hue. Smog is a problem due to
the city’s location in a valley surrounded by mountains.
I lost the back of my watch at some point during the flight. I repair it
with a piece of my business card and selotape while checking in. The
selotape makes the dial hard to read, but at least it’s a functioning
watch. I’ll need it as there’s no clock in my room.
We have a wander. The area is pretty posh. Avenue Lyon is closed to car
traffic for part of Sunday and it’s full of bikes and pedestrians. Looks
a bit like Vondel Park on a Saturday.
We find a corner shop and I buy a bottle of Kuntsmann Pale Ale.
"What are the rules on street drinking here?"
I take a chance and guzzle as we walk. It's pretty hot and it slips down a treat.
It's before midday and nowhere is open. But a dodgy looking bloke with
missing teeth and a high-vis jacket comes over and introduces himself.
It's a tense moment. He asks me something in Spanish and I pick out the
word "mujer". He's asking me if I want a woman. It's 11:30 on a Sunday.
Got to admire his sense of enterprise. I politely decline.
We find a cafe. Stan has a monster ice cream. Me and John have a
cappuccino. And I have a sandwich, too. It’s a bit bland, if I’m honest.
But the sweet offerings look good. Dolores would love the cakes here.
Finally we find a pub that's open, El Hapetito, with a very friendly
young barmaid. Who speaks no English. We've seen a "Cerveza artesenal"
sign outside and manage to order 3 half litres of Pale Ale. We don’t
linger after finishing them. A half is enough for me at this point.
I'm a bit limpy on the return to our hotel. Damn these new shoes.
I’m told Kristen is in a pub. Rather than head off there, I rest.
Recuperating for a couple of hours. And showering. After 25 hours
travelling, I really need a shower. And a whisky. Lagavullin, for a
change.
There’s a meeting to explain the judging system in the evening. It’s at
Flannery’s Beerhouse,
an Irish pub not far from the hotel. I walk down there with Stan and
John. They have smart phones so can navigate the way. No need for me to
worry with paper maps.
Our route is leafy and suburban, be it mostly in the form of flats.
We’re quite early and few others are there. Inside, it’s been quite nicely done. Without too much folksy Irish crap.
The meeting is in the upstairs bar. We head up there, but as it’s pretty
hot, we move outside to the roof terrace, which is a very pleasant
temperature. Kristen arrives wearing some godawful gaudy shorts and
socks. I didn’t realise he’d gone blind.
“A pint of Stout, please.”
“Sorry, that’s run out.”
What? An Irish pub with no Stout? I get an IPA instead. The beers come
from the owner’s other business, the Tubinger brewery, which is located
about an hour outside the city.
After Felipe Pizarro, one of the organisers, has explained the judging
method in Spanish and English, there’s a buffet. I’m not that hungry and
limit myself to a few chips. I’m starting to run out of steam.
We walk back to the hotel after a few more beers. Where I finish the day with a tot of Lagavullin. Sweet.
I think I’m going to enjoy this trip.
Max Lager's Wood-Fired Grill & Brewery
320 Peachtree St NE,
Atlanta,
GA 30308.
http://www.maxlagersrestaurantatlanta.com/
Hapetito Sport
Avda Providencia 1344, P
rovidencia, Santiago,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2235 1326
Flannery's Beerhouse
Tobalaba 379,
Providencia, Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2303 0197
http://www.flannerys.cl/beerhouse/
Disclaimer:
My trip was paid for by
Copa Cervezas de América
http://www.copacervezasdeamerica.com
Chile judging day one
Kristen is already in the breakfast in the breakfast room when I come
down. What is he wearing? I wish I had my sunglasses with me. I can
barely see my food for the glare.
It’s quite early, 7:45. We were warned by Felipe yesterday to be punctual. The tasting kicks off at nine.
A couple of young Brazilian women are on the next table. Fernanda Meybom
and Daiane Colle. They’re from Florianopolis in the south of the
country.
“We know that we smile too much,” Fernanda says. Is that a bad thing?
Smiling too much? Rather that than be a miserable bastard. You can never
smile too much, in my opinion. I just think that. Don’t actually say
it. I’m English. We keep in too much.
They’re critical of the breakfast. “It’s much better in Brazil. Lots of fruit. And better bread.”
“What sort of bread?” I stupidly ask. “Lots of different types of
bread.” Is the reply. I realise it was like asking what sort of beer
they brew in Germany. I’m an idiot sometimes.
I should probably tell you why I’m here. It’s to judge in the Copa
Cervezas de América the first half of the week, then talk at the Latin
American Brewers Conference the second half. Kristen has done it for
several years and got me the invitation. I didn’t need to be asked
twice.
It’s bright but chilly morning as we walk to the university, where the
tasting will take place. Kristen is as hyperactive as ever. Someone
should lace his morning coffee with Ritalin. Might make him more
bearable.
The verges are well kempt and the streets are clean. A good bit cleaner
than Amsterdam. There’s a mix of old, mini palaces and mid-rise flats.
The gardens are illuminated by bright flowers. All very well-healed.
Only the high fences around each property – sometimes topped with barbed
wire - betray a darker side to the city.
The bundles of mains electricity cables sagging from telegraph poles are
a bit scary. Especially when odd bits of wire are hanging off. And
workmen do seem to be fiddling with them quite often..
Kristen has a weird cheese-shaped hat, in the colours of the US flag.
“The slowest judge on my table will have to wear it. Chileans won’t like
it. Cheesehead is the term for someone who is a bit slow mentally.”
Great way to make friends and influence people, Kristen.
The tasting is in a hall of the
Universidad de Las Americas. The building is a little bit rundown. Like Leeds Poly in the 1970’s. No, not that bad. Probably much like Leeds University.
There are tables of three, headed by a captain. One of which is me. My
job is to achieve consensus when our scores are too far apart. We each
have a laptop on which to enter our scores and comments.
The morning tasting kicks off with American Light Lagers followed by
Cream Ales. Mikel Rius, who organises the Barcelona Beer Festival, and
Gabriel Lara from Chile are my tasting companions for this session. It’s
fun meeting different nationalities. Especially South Americans, few of
whom I’ve met before.
The people are great. While the beers are mostly pretty bland. Except for a couple of real stinkers.
Looking around the room I notice something. I’m about the only male –
other than the organisers and Stan – who isn’t wearing some sort of
beer-branded shirt. In the case of industry people, one from the
business they work for. Civilians presumably favour their favourite
brewery.
The wild beers are mostly dead good. There’s a good fruited Brett beer
that could pass for Belgian. Then a Stout/Double Brown based beer that
has a wonderful combination of coconut and coffee. It’s a really
outstanding beer. Wish I knew what it is.
For lunch we trail off to Pez de Oro, a Peruvian restaurant just around
the corner. I’m accompanied by my tasting partners. It’s nice as we have
more time to chat than during the judging.
We start with ceviche, I dish I’ve heard of but never tried. Gingery,
spicy, sour and delicious. It’s a dead good mix of Asian and South
American flavours. It’s followed by a lamb shank with rice. It’s pretty
nice, but I get a small piece of bone stuck between my teeth. It takes
me the next hour to remove it.
Dorthea Wächtler, a pleasant young woman who works for Weyermann malt comes and sits at our table.
“Do you live in Bamberg?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You lucky devil.”
She speaks excellent English and Spanish. Way better than my German.
I’m really jealous of her Spanish. Would come in dead handy here, where
lots of people speak zero English.
I pass on the cheesecake pud.
In the afternoon I’m paired with Hernando Hernandez from Chile and
Ricardo Aftyka from Argentina. The latter has a tiny brewery in Buenos
Aires, Juguetes Perdidos, which produces 1,200 annually. He and his
partners all have other jobs.
We’ve a whole session of Belgian Blonde Ales. The first is pretty good,
with all the characteristics I’d expect: sweet, clovey and a touch of
bitterness in the finish. It’s all downhill from there. The rest are
mostly shit. Some are far too dark, others have no clove flavour, quite a
few have a horrible cabbage water taste. I have to eat loads of
crackers to get rid of the nastiness.
Kristen comes up to me and says: “How did you ever manage to write books typing with two fingers?” Cheeky bastard.
“It’s three, actually. And a thumb.”
As I’m not sure of the route back to the hotel. I ask Averie Swanson,
head brewer at Jester King, if I can walk with her. I was too busy
talking on the way over to pay attention. We talk beer, obviously
enough. I’m amazed to find out that she knows who I am. The name Andrea
Stanley pops up. She’s another fan.
We’ve a little time before the evening event, a beer launch at Kross
Bar. I use it to rest a little, watching some incomprehensible, but
reassuring crap local TV. It’s all a bit
Channel Nine.
Cervceria Zigurat is
launching four new experimental beers. Experimental. There’s a word that
makes me nervous when it’s stuck in front of beer. Isn’t that how
breweries get rid of shit that’s gone wrong? By calling it
“experimental”.
There’s minibus to take us to
KrossBar.
We’re waiting for Lew and Gordon Strong, who have disappeared into one
of their rooms. “What are they doing?”, I ask. Someone replies: “They're
probably kissing.”
"Thank you for putting that image in my head. I can't unsee it now."
We eventually realise they aren’t coming and drive off. They'll be locked in embrace all evening.
KrossBar is packed. We squeeze into the beer garden. I order a Maibock,
which is pretty nice. Especially after all those terrible Belgian Blonde
Ales.
Felipe squats on the bar and gives a little talk. I wish I could still
do things like that. I'd never get up again. They joys of becoming an
old twat.
Then we get to drink the beer, a NEIPA. Which isn’t really murky enough
for the style. Thankfully. It's free, so I sink a pint or five. As you
do.
"Mike* warned me: don't try to keep up with Ron."
"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me."
I chat with Brazilian Leonardo Sewald about parti-gyling. Well, shout,
really. It's a subject that gets me aggressive. And it’s really loud in
the pub. That's my excuse. Leonardo brews at
Cervejaria Seasons in Porto Alegre, at the very southern extreme of Brazil.
A journalist comes up and chats. A photographer snaps.
Me and Uwe Kalms chat about something. I'm probably way too intense. Thank god it wasn't captured on video.
As we leave, we walk past a wall of beer drinker portraits.
“That’s not right” I say “George Best was a total and utter pisshead –
he got through two livers - but he wasn’t a beer drinker. White wine was
his drink of choice. And Churchill, he usually went for champagne or
whisky, the posh bastard.”
Everyone else is already outside before I can tell them about Carlsberg Special Brew being brewed for Churchill.
We wait ages for an Uber. A dozen taxis cruise up while we’re hanging around, but we send them on their way.
I’m slightly worried that we’re five in number. Too many for one car. A
tiny car arrives. Large enough for four small passengers. I’m just a
slip of a thing, but some of our party are more substantially built.
Somehow, we all cram in. The driver doesn’t seem to mind. I’m on the
outside. But I can't reach the door to close it. My arm is jammed,
Leonardo has to do it. The ride is, er, intimate. And bumpy. And filled
with laughter.
The driver asks something in Spanish after a couple of hundred metres. “Can I stop off for petrol?”
Yeah fine. It’s dead comfortable back here. Take your time, mate.
We swap Douglas Adams jokes to pass the time. Squinting under my armpit,
I can see the pump. He’s bought 200 pesos worth of petrol. That’s about
a litre and a half.
Back at the hotel, we spill out when the doors are opened. And climb contently to our beds.
Though I do have a quick Lagavullin, purely for medicinal purposes. My
doctor recommended it. I think. Could have been just a very vivid dream.
Great evening. I love Chile.
* Karnowski, of
Zebulon Brewing in Weaverville, North Carolina.
Universidad de Las Americas
Av. Antonio Varas 880,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
http://www.udla.cl/
Restaurant Pez de Oro
Av. Manuel Montt 1060,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2205 5861
Juguetes Perdidos Cerveza
Bolivia 3342,
B1678EIP Caseros,
Buenos Aires,
Argentina.
KrossBar
Dardignac 127,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2759 5434
http://www.kross.cl/
Cervceria Zigurat
http://www.cervezazigurat.cl/
Cervejaria Seasons
Rua Provenzano,
333 Anchieta,
90200-200 Porto Alegre,
Brazil.
Tel: +55 51 4102-0583
http://www.cervejariaseasons.com.br
Chile judging day two
I can see the glare from Kristen’s socks even before I get to the bottom
of the stairs. His shorts make me wish I were colour blind.
“Dress in a hurry this morning, Kristen?”
He doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. One of the two. As every day I have
scrambled egg, two slices of cheese and one of toast. There isn’t much
else. Some spam-like meat. It’s not the most inspiring breakfast. But
still better than some of the paper plate and plastic cutlery breakfasts
I’ve had in the US. I felt lucky if there was one thing I wanted to
eat.
It’s another slightly chilly, but bright morning. A bit like the one
nice day in June we get in Amsterdam. Some of the locals are wearing
overcoats. Really. I’m juts in a short-sleeved shirt.
It’s a pleasant walk. Flowers flame behind fences, children play in the
small park, men sweep the pavements, cut the grass and water with hoses.
This morning my partners are Salvador Villacreces, brewer at the
Cervecería Clandestina in Panamá, and Rodrigo Ramirez, from Chile.
The first two sets are Ordinary Bitter and Best Bitter. I fear the
worst. Will the brewers have any idea of what Bitter should taste like?
I’m pleasantly surprised. They all taste like Bitter and most are pretty
good. I’d happily sink multiple pints of a couple of them. Which is the
biggest compliment I can give a beer.
I realise that each time I’m paired with one Chilean and another
foreigner, mostly Spanish speaking. Other than the Brazilians. It’s a
good idea. A mix of nationalities is more likely to come to a balanced
view.
I haven’t argued with my fellow judges much. Most have far much more
experience of tasting beer than I do. They spotted faults I’d missed.
Obvious enough when they pointed them out, but I still missed them.
Occasionally, I’d caught one that had slipped past them.
Only on a handful of beers have we been miles apart. Then I bludgeoned
them into submission with wit and aggression. Not really.
Jeff Stuffings, who’s sitting directly behind me tells me: “I’m
surprised how diplomatic you are.” What do people think I am? Some sort
of monster? I’m not here to make enemies or annoy.
I’m doing my best to do the beers justice. And take advantage of the
rare chance to discuss beers in detail with people who actually know
what the fuck they’re talking about. That’s fun to me, sad as it might
sound.
Kristen has been judging Imperial Stouts. I’d have quite fancied that
category, but he puts me right. “They’re all terrible. Like treacle
mixed with syrup. Undrinkable.”
“But at least they’re full of alcohol.”
“One on another table tasted like balsamic vinegar and soy sauce.”
“Sounds like it would make a good dipping sauce.”
“Or a marinade.”
There are a few female judges. Eight of the forty-eight on duty today.
I’m told one, Amanda Reitenbach, has been really important to the
Brazilian beer scene.
Fernanda and Daiane walk past and call me Ronaldo. They find it very
funny. They’ve noticed that on the screen that shows the judging panels
for the current session that’s what I’m called.
I suppose it is funny. I had just told the organisers my name was Ron.
Extrapolating that to Ronaldo isn’t so crazy. They invite me for
cocktails this evening in the hotel. Caipirinhas. Never had one of those
before.
On the way back from a comfort break, I bump into Daniel Trivelli, one
of the organisers. I haven’t had chance to talk to him yet, so I stop
for a chat.
The poor chap put his back out yesterday. He was in agonising pain and
had to visit the hospital. Where they pumped him full of pain killers.
“I wouldn’t wish that pain on my worst enemy.” He remarks.
The bogs are a bit grim. But I’ve seen worse in British pubs.
Lunch as at the Pez do Oro again. We’ve finished quite late and most of
the others are already here. We squeeze in at the back of the
restaurant. And start with ceviche. Worse could happen. This time I have
a bright orange chicken and pumpkin main course. With rice.
For the afternoon session, I’m with Daniel Rocamora from Uruguay and Daniel Moscoso from Chile.
We don’t finish until 7 PM. By which time I’m totally knacked and never
want to see a beer again. I have little time to rest before the evening
event.
A few of us get an Uber to
Mossto. It’s
owned by Rodrigo Ramirez, with whom I judged this morning. When we
arrive, there’s already a huddle of judges in the garden. We join them. I
order a Black IPA when the waitress drops by.
I sit next to Carlo Lapolli, who tells me about the beer scene in
Brazil. He’s the head of the Brazilian small brewers’ organisation,
ABRACERVA.
He says I should come to Brazil. You won’t have to ask me twice. I’ve
really liked all the Brazilians I’ve met so far. And the food sounds
amazing.
I wait an hour for my black IPA. The waitress has a different
explanation each time she returns without it. I’m fairly sure she’s
given it to someone else before she got to me a couple of times. Got to
within two punters of me once. My fault for sitting in a distant corner,
I suppose. Or thinking earlier: "I never want to see a beer again".
Eventually, I go to the bar to fetch my black IPA. The serving area is
in the most inconvenient spot possible. Oh well, at least I have a beer
now. The wait makes it taste all the sweeter. Or rather the bitterer, it
being an IPA.
With a beer finally in my hand, I chat more with Carlo and Leonardo Sewald, another very friendly Brazilian.
They tell me about an ancient German brewer in Brazil who had a totally
run-down brewery. They show me photos. It looks incredible: built in the
early 20th century and never refurbished by the look of it.
“Unfortunately, the beers all tasted weird. Eventually the health authorities closed him down.”
Sadly, he’s since died. In the photos he looked well into his nineties.
A few of us get an Uber back to the hotel Not as crazy as yesterday’s, unfortunately.
Back at the hotel, the lobby is full of judges drinking cocktails. I’d
wondered where the Brazilians were planning on having their party. Soon
we have cocktails in our hands and our arses on seats. A wave of warmth
and happiness flows over me. Though that could just be the cocktail
kicking in.
Caipirinha is made with Cachaça, distilled from sugar cane juice. “So
rum, then?” “No, it’s something different” Daiane and Fernanda insist.
I’m pretty sure fermented sugar cane is the definition of rum. But they
insist. I’m not going to force the point. They’re making the cocktails.
We discuss Michael Jackson. Someone says that they once had to collect
Michael Jackson at the airport. And, as Michael didn’t know them, had a
sign with “Michael Jackson” on it. You can guess the misunderstanding
that occurred.
Kristen insults me, Gordon and Lew calling us "old bastards" I call him a
twat. I think we come out of that even. Though he does have a point
about the old bit.
I fetch my two bottles of Fullers 1905 Old London Ale, The only beer I
brought. It goes down pretty well. Then again, they are quite well
lubricated. Even Kristen is nice about it. And he’s likely to be mean in
any state of sobriety.
When the rum, sorry, Cachaça runs out, we move onto the pisco someone
has brought. It doesn’t last long. Though there aren’t that many of us
left. Only the real pissheads. The Brazilians wisely retired to their
beds when the rum, sorry Cachaça, expired.
Fucking ace day.
Cervecería Clandestina
PanAmerica Corporate Center,
Edificio 9123 local 1 y 2,
Panamá Pacífico, Arraiján,
Rep. de Panamá
Mossto Brewfood
Av. Condell 1460,
Providencia, Santiago,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2791 8603
http://mossto.cl/
ABRACERVA
SAAN Q. 2,
lotes 420 a 440
Brasília (DF)
Tel: (61) 3771-2400
http://abracerva.com.br
Chile judging day three
The man who looks like the victim of a paint factory explosion is in the
breakfast room again. I mean Kristen. I assume his wife plays little
part in his clothing choices.
We stop off at the
Bonaparte coffee
shop on the way to the university. The coffee in the hotel isn’t great.
And a double expresso will guarantee I’m alert for the judging. Well,
awake, at least.
It’s a 9 AM start again. But there’s only one session, thankfully. Yesterday the judging went on way too long.
My laptop isn’t working. I can’t get a wifi connection. I call over
Felipe and he gets someone to take a look. He can’t get it to work,
either, so they fetch me a replacement laptop. It’s all done pretty
efficiently and I’m ready to rock by nine.
I’m judging with Ignazio Schwalb and Andres Gonzales Cuadra this
session. We’re judging vegetable and herb beers first. In the
“experimental” category. That doesn’t raise my hopes much. Amazingly
most aren't shit. Some are dead good.
The final flight is Strong Dark Belgian Ale. Great. This is bang in the
middle of my expertise. “I drink a crate of St. Bernardus Abt every
week. This should be a doddle.” I say. I’ve been looking forward to
this flight.
The first beer arrives. It’s amber in colour. Mmmm. The “Dark” in the
beer style’s name sort of gives away what colour it should be. There are
four beers in all, none much like Belgian versions. A couple are way
off the style.
We're done by midday. Not sure what the plan is after that. I manage to
collar Filipe. "What's the plan?" "The expo is over the road. And
there's a free lunch. Just go in the building over the road and turn
left."
It's a bit more complicated than that. True, it’s to the left. But you
have to leave the building, turn another two corners, go through the
student canteen and then around another corner. I feel a little out of
place, surrounded by people 40 years my junior. I finally spot someone
wearing a lanyard. I’m amazed that I found it.
I'm walking through the Expo looking confused when someone says: "Ron,
can I have a photo with you?" I'm tempted to say "That'll be 10,000
pesos." But I'm a generous man. It's a Mexican bloke. We talk about beer
a bit and I say I'm surprised he knows who I am. "You're famous in
Mexico." "Really?"
The free lunch isn't great. But it's food and I haven't eaten since
breakfast. Sliced meat in a bub with cheese and avocado on top. I’m
starving, so I gulp it down.
I bump into John Robertson, Marty Nachel (Marty is a writer and BJCP
judge. Though I don’t hold the latter against him.) and Uwe Kalms,
who brews in Den Bosch. The exhibition part is in a courtyard under a tent. It's hot. Stiflingly hot.
"Let's get a beer" someone suggests. Probably me. Which is what we do. Mosaic IPAs. It is rather nice.
“It's hot in here. Fancy going to a pub?” Someone suggests. Probably me.
We're in a university. And there's a church just down the street. In a catholic country . . .
Sure enough, there's
a bar over the road.
We sit in the shade outside and order pisco sours. There’s a choice of
Peruano and Chileano. I go for the latter. I am in Chile. After all.
The food – which they bill as tapas - looks dead good. They're even photographing it.
The barman says: "The Peruanos are better. Bigger, too. And the same price."
He’s right. I switch to Peruanos.
I have order croquets. Especially as Uwe, my soon to be countryman, is
here. They aren’t quite what I expect. More like bitterballen, really.
Nice. But John's beef bao is better.
I chat with Uwe about old Dutch Lager styles. Something I love banging
on about. I tell him the story of Oud Bruin (which I got from Roel
Mulder – he has an ace book on old Dutch beers, but, unfortunately, it’s
only in Dutch) being invented by big Lager breweries in the North to
compete with the sweet top-fermenting beer drunk in Brabant. And to
drive the small breweries that made it out of business. I promise to
send him an Oud Bruin recipe.
After a while, Uwe goes back for Best of Show judging, which I’m glad I
wasn’t asked to do. I’m all judged out. We sit in the sun and have more
pisco sours.
After 90 minutes or so, Uwe comes back, "How did you know we'd still be here?" He just laughs.
Our waiter speaks no English. So John is surprised at the response when he asks for the toilet inside:
"El bano?"
"It's there on the right." Comes back in English.
I order one of the ossabuco baos. It tastes as good as it looks. And more pisco Peruanos.
We’re on a main road and buses are constantly swishing past.
“Did you see the number of that bus? T1TS. Tits. Someone must have been
having a laugh when they called in that.” I’m an observant chap.
“Damn. I missed it.”
On the way back to the hotel, I buy a bottle of pisco in tiny bottle
shop. Bloke dusts off the bottle. Obviously a popular brand, this. It's
only about 4,000 pesos, the same as one pisco sour in the pub. His
ancient tiny mum pokes out from the back as I'm paying. Not sure why.
We decide to walk to
Mossto. It isn’t far and it’s a lovely evening.
I spot "Cervezas artesenales" on the outside of a bar called Saint
Germain. It would be bad luck to just walk past. I like the sign by the
door: “Quando hay cerveza no hay tristeza” “When you have beer you don’t
have sadness.” I can go along with that.
I order a Stouty thing,
Hoffnung Stout. It isn’t great. A bit sour. Weirdly some of the draughts have come all the way from Europe.
The décor is a bit weird. I get the murals of brewing equipment and
hops. But why the droogs from Clockwork Orange? I don’t get the beer
connection there.
As we’re walking we can see snow-capped mountains on the horizon. It’s a
cheerful sight. Sadly, they’re often veiled by smog. A few old
buildings, strut half naked on the street, plaster crumbled off.
We pass a gym-like places where women are exercising like pole dancers. Is that popular here. We pass a second. I guess so.
This time we’re in the
upstairs room at the back. There’s already quite a crowd of rowdy drunks. Sorry, beer people.
Tempting fate, I order Black IPA again. This time it turns up in under an hour. Yahay! It arrives in a few minutes, to be fair.
I chat with Carlo and Chris Flaskamp about Germans in Brazil. They had
to burn all their books in WW II, after Brazil had declared war on
Germany. That’s tough. Which leads us on to discussing the Brazilian
troops that fought for the Allies in Italy.
Chris runs a brewery about an hour outside Santiago. It’s called
Tübinger, because he studied in Tübingen in Baden Württemberg. Though he was born in Brazil and now lives in Chile.
I order a hamburgery thing from the waiter. "What's your name?" "Ron"
"Rob?" "No, Ron." "Rum?" "Ronaldo." "Oh yes, Ronaldo." I guess my South
American name is Ronaldo now. Strange, because Kristen has been calling
me that for years.
The service is pretty anarchic. And the bar in the most inconvenient
spot possible, both for the servers and customers. I fetch my second
beer myself. It seems simplest.
I don’t stay that late. I’ll need all my strength for tomorrow. It’s my birthday. And I’ll be speaking.
I get an Uber with Averie and Jeff from Jester King. With only the three of us, it positively luxurious.
A shot of pisco speeds me off to slumber’s embrace.
Café Bonaparte
Av. Ricardo Lyon 1229,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
http://www.hotelbonaparte.cl/cafeteria/
D'n Draok - Bossche Brouwerij
Musselstraat,
5215he 's-Hertogenbosch.
Tel: 6426865
http://draok.nl/
BAO BAR
Av. Manuel Montt 925,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 3267 4334
http://baobar.cl
Saint Germain Beerhouse
Rancagua 406,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
Cerveza Hoffnung
Graciela Letelier de Ibañez N°2,
Maipú,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 9 6193 3716
http://www.cervezahoffnung.cl
Mossto Brewfood
Av. Condell 1460,
Providencia, Santiago,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2791 8603
http://mossto.cl/
Cerveceria Principal (Tübinger)
Calle Nueva s/n,
Parcela 6A. El Principal,
Pirque.
http://www.cerveceriaprincipal.cl/
Chile Expo day two
Is it already 5 days I've been here?
I rise late. Fuck it. I've been up at 7:45 every day. And spent 8 hours
judging beers. Not drinking. You actually drink bugger all while
judging. Well, most people do. When I get one I like, I finish the
bastard off. It's only going to get thrown down the sink otherwise.
It's noon by the time I troll up. Kristen has already started his talk
on Stout. He notices me walk in and does his best to embarrass me. "We
thought you might be dead."
He flicks back to a slide with a picture of me with an eye patch
photoshopped on. Then gets everyone to sing happy birthday. It is my
birthday, but it's still pretty weird. At least I have a beer in my
hand. A very nice mosaic IPA. Things could be worse.
I'm tempted to shout comments out a couple of times, but manage to
restrain myself. I'm talking later. And I know what a vindictive bastard
Kristen is.
Thankfully the lectern is blocking my view of the bottom half of his
body. Meaning I can actually see the slides without being dazzled by his
socks.
Stan is up next. I'm sitting next to John Robertson. "Do you fancy a
beer?" "Is the cath a popolic?" I fetch us a couple of mosaic IPAs.
Stan's talk is dead, dead interesting. Lots of numbery things, which is
what I love. It's about Belgian monastic brewing. I'm not tempted to
shout comments this time. Here's an odd thing. Despite mostly drinking
Belgian beer. Well one Belgian beer, St. Bernardus Abt. I know very
little about Belgian beer. I quite like that. Doesn't spoil my
illusions.
I’m sitting next to John Roberts and keep nipping out to bring us Mosaic
IPA. I’m a sociable sort of bloke. And often unaccountably thirsty.
When Stan is done, I feel like some lunch. I ask John: "Fancy a pisco
sour lunch?" "Do shits bear in wood?" We head off with Stan and Jeff
Stuffings. As we try to leave we're directed to another room where
there's a beer tasting. We bug out but Stan stays.
We head over to
Cafe Bao. I've had no
breakfast so I'm looking forward to some ace tapas. And some pisco
sours, obviously. The first Peruano I had yesterday was too sweet for my
taste. But I've come to like them. As the barman said, they're bigger
and boozier. That's got me sold.
As we're tucking into ossabuco bao, the conversation turns to New
England IPA. Talk to just about any professional brewer (even ones that
brew them) off the record and they'll tell what a steaming pile of crap
they are. No-one thinks they'll be around for long. We'll see.
About five piscos in - I'm thirsty because I had no breakfast - John
gets a text message. Does he know where Ron is? I'm on at 15:30. My
watch says 15:20. But since the back fell off on the flight over, it's
been running slow. It's actually 15:40.
"I thought we were on South American time?"
"We thought you might be dead." Kristen says. He seems to have an unnatural interest in my demise.
My talk starts slowly. Then the piscos kick in and there's a good deal
of swearing and bad jokes. I've no idea how long it takes. To avoid
dehydration, I've two beers. That nice mosaic IPA.
Despite my playing nice earlier, Kristen interrupts a couple of times. Bastard.
There's a panel after my talk. Me, Stan and John. Moderated by Kristen.
There's just time to pick up some more Mosaic IPA before we start. John
has warned me that Kristen wants to wind me up. So I'm deliberately -
and untypically - dead reasonable. That'll teach the twat.
Day's duties done, it's time for fun. "Fancy a pisco, John?" "Do catholics shit on bears?"
As we're waiting to cross the road, someone says hello from one of the
cars. Who the hell was that? ""It's the driver who picked us up at the
airport" John tells me. How weird. What are the chances of that? "I've
already bumped into him another time." John tells me. Turns out that he
lives just opposite Bao Bar.
It all starts getting hazy after that. We take an Uber somewhere. Then another to
Flannery's. Where there’s a Patagonia Malt event.
For some reason I've lost my sense of balance.
"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" John asks. It seems like a good idea. I'm quite tired.
So tired, I don't even have a nightcap.
BAO BAR
Av. Manuel Montt 925,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 3267 4334
http://baobar.cl
Flannery's Beerhouse
Tobalaba 379,
Providencia, Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 2303 0197
http://www.flannerys.cl/beerhouse/
Chile Expo day three
Another day of no judging, so I arise late again, at around 10. Too late for breakfast in the hotel.
I put on some bollocky local TV. Is that Kommissar Rex? What a weird
series to show down here. I fill my head with fluff for an hour or two.
Worried about getting through all the pisco I have left, I have a couple
of shots of that. Don’t want to have to throw it down the sink come
Sunday.
On the way to the expo, I pick up a cheese and ham enpanada at a little
shop I spotted yesterday. I manage to understand when they ask me if I
want it warmed up. I can't be arsed to wait, so I say "no". I need my
breakfast. And I need it quickly.
Once at the Expo, I get myself a beer. The Mosaic IPA is all gone,
unfortunately. So I get another IPA, which is also pretty good.
“Fill it to the top, please. It’ll save me having to come back so often.”
Lew Bryson is talking. He doesn't have slides. At first I think I've
arrived when he's already started the Q&A. In fact his whole
presentation has been in that format. As always, I’ve a beer in my hand.
I listen so much better that way.
After he's finished, I feel like some lunch. Where to go?
When I arrive at
Bao Bar, Averie and
Jeff Stuffings are already there. How odd. Well, not really. Just for a
change, I order a Pisco Peruano. And an ossobuco bao, which is
ridiculously good value at $2,500. Funnily enough, the waiter remembers
me.
One of the waiters speaks reasonably good English. I discover that he’s
Czech and try what little remains of my Czech on him. He gives me a
slightly odd, pitying look. I’m getting used to being looked at with
pity. It comes with being an old bastard.
John Fahey joins us. Stan and John Roberts troll up. Then When Brad
Kraus turn up, the waiters stick two tables together for us. Brad brews
in Panama. Our table is starting to get crowded.
The afternoon and evening race by in a haze of pisco sours. And the occasional tapas.
I awake in my hotel bed. At least I'm undressed. But where's my watch? I’m going to have to guess when it’s time to get up.
BAO BAR
Av. Manuel Montt 925,
Providencia,
Región Metropolitana.
Tel: +56 2 3267 4334
http://baobar.cl
Chile barbecue
I'm feeling a bit rough when I awake. I drag myself downstairs for
breakfast and find Kristen there. I tell him about losing my watch.
Whilst shading my eyes from the glare of his socks.
"It's not a big deal. It only cost 10 euros new. And that was before the
emergency repair." I replaced the back that I lost on the flight over
with a bit of my business card, held on with selotape. It looks dead
classy. Though it's much less reliable at keeping time, for some reason.
"I looked all over my hotel room, but can't find it. I can't imagine
anyone would have stolen it."
I ask Kristen where there's an ATM. I need more cash. He gives me
directions to a supermarket that has one. He seems to know what he's
talking about. He's been here several times before.
A shower should liven me up. I turn on the shower to run warm while I
brush my teeth. When I get in the shower, I notice something on floor of
the cubicle. It's my watch. I quickly grab it before it gets too wet.
The cardboard back isn't much in the way of protection. How the hell did
it get into the shower? I guess that’s a mystery that will never be
solved.
I’m told there were 31 pisco sours on our bill yesterday. I feel like I drank all of them.
I go off in search of the supermarket with the ATM, planning to pick up
some grocery stuff, too. It's further than I expected. Pretty sure
Kristen said to turn right onto Bilbao. After 400 metres or so I still
haven't spotted the supermarket. Obviously I've come the wrong way. Or
Kristen's directions were crap. I'm inclined towards the latter.
On the way back, I notice that the door to one of the banks I've passed
is open. At least I'll be able to pick up some cash. I try with my bank
card, but right at the end of the process it says that the transaction
isn't available with my card. I try again with slightly different
options. This is a bugger. Let's give it a go with my credit card.
Thankfully, that works.
I decide to head to the shops at the back of the university. There's a
convenience store and that bottle shop. I get some soft drinks in the
former and a bottle of wine for Dolores in the latter. By the time I get
back to the hotel, I've been walking for 80 minutes. I'm still feeling
rough. The walk hasn't helped at all. The contrary, in fact.
Christoph Flaskamp is supposed to be picking up a couple of us at 11:15 to go
his brewery
for a barbecue. Stan and John Roberts have cancelled, because their
flight has been brought forward. So it's just me and Michael Hall,
former head of the BJCP.
I start getting worried about 11:30. At 11:40, Michael Hall, who’s
getting a lift as well, gets a message from Christoph. He's running a
little late. It's almost midday when he rolls up. (Michael is former
head of the BJCP. But I don’t hold that against him.) He’s a
soft-spoken, friendly man.
The drive to the brewery is interesting. It looks a lot less first world
after we leave Santiago. There are bright orange flowers everywhere. I
ask Christoph what they are. He doesn't seem to know: "A spring flower."
Is the best he can come up with. I could have guessed that.
When he finds out my wife is German we start discussing language.
“What language do you speak at home?”
“English.” I reply. “When the kids were small I wouldn’t respond if they spoke to me in English.”
“I speak to mine in German. But they answer in Spanish.”
“It was easier for us, as neither are Dutch.”
The barbecue is in full swing when we arrive, with around 100 guests
getting stuck into the beers enthusiastically. As it’s an
all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink event, that shouldn’t be a surprise.
And, to be fair, it is quite warm.
Christoph gives us a quick tour of his brewery. It looks much like every
other modern brewery: loads of stainless steel things in a shed.
Chris introduces me to his partner, Martin Flannery. Owner of Flannery’s
Beerhouse. He has some weird tales of importing Guinness into Chile.
And eventually being told to stop. That’s why he teamed up with Chris:
to brew a Guinness substitute for his two Irish pubs. We try a glass.
It’s pretty nice. With a good creamy head from the use of nitrogen.
We start to chat about Guinness serving methods. His parents ran a pub
in the West of Ireland when he was a kid. He can remember when Guinness
still came from the wood. His mum would put some casks next to the fire
and leave some in the cold. The warm ones became the high cask, the one
with highly carbonated beer. The cold ones were the low cask, with
flatter beer. Every pint served was a combination of the two. It’s the
same concept as the Belfast Guinness Porter.
I meet one of my fellow judges, a young Colombian woman, now living in
Chile, with whom I’d not spoken before. She smiles all the time. It’s
infectious. I’m starting to crack a grin more often. And I’m a right
miserable old git.
Chris gives me the nod when the barbecue is ready so we’re at the head
of the queue. Great. I hate waiting for stuff. A couple of big lumps of
meat on each of our plates, we sit down to eat. This rather pleasant,
eating al fresco. There’s potato salad, rice and tomato salad, too. It’s
all rather nice.
“Why are some people drinking from real glasses?” I ask Chris. We’ve got the plastic cups the bar is serving in.
“They’ve bought them in the shop. Do you want one?”
I wasn’t dropping a hint, but I’m not going to turn one down. Chris
comes back with a bag, a baseball cap and a six pack, as well as the
glass. The beer definitely tastes better from the real glass.
We drink a bit more beer, but can’t linger long. Mike has a plane to
catch. Chris will drop him off at the airport then carry on to my hotel.
I’m glad we make the detour to the airport. I’m dying for a wee when we get there.
“Is it OK if I go to the toilet, Chris?” Not adding the other possibility: me pissing inside his car.
“No problem. I’ll wait here.”
Sweet relief is soon at hand. Er, so to speak.
The week’s last event, the award ceremony, is tonight at eight. It’s in a
different part of the same university. I’ve a couple hours to write
emails, waste time looking at tweets and stare in literal
incomprehension at the TV.
I walk down by myself. But soon find some chums to chat with. And some beer to drink, obviously.
It’s really packed. All the seats are taken. I have to stand at the
side. It’s not particularly comfortable as people keep pushing past.
It’s not their fault, No other way to get through. But it’s a constant
struggle to keep my beer intact. Obviously, that’s the most important.
Wouldn’t want to lose any beer. Or spill it over someone.
I hear my name called. That’s nice. People start motioning. I have to go
on stage. OK, not so sure about that. But there are a few dozen others
so I don’t stand out like the fat, old git that I am.
There’s some very enthusiastic applause for some of the winners. Especially the Argentinian breweries.
They wander around with canapey sort of food. I have a few bits, but that barbecue has right filled me up.
I don’t stay too late. Outside, where I’m trying to remember which
direction is home, I bump into another attendee. Who has a car and
drives me back. That’s a relief. I’m knacked again. And I need to be up
fairly early. My lift to the airport is at 9:30.
The week has been amazing. Like a summer school for pissheads. The most continuous fun I’ve had for years.
Just time for a quick pisco before the god of sleep plucks me from this earth.
Cerveceria Principal (Tübinger)
Calle Nueva s/n,
Parcela 6A. El Principal,
Pirque.
http://www.cerveceriaprincipal.cl/
Chile there I go
As I come down the stairs I notice a strange green glow. The receptionist is cowering under his desk.
Could this be my worst fear? Have Kristen gone full nuclear?
Shielding my eyes, I enter the breakfast room. Everyone is by the
window, behind a lead shield. The only seat left is next to Kristen. I
pathetically attempt to shield my grillocks with two spoons. And rotate
my head from side to side to stop one side burning off. But maybe I’m
just rotissering myself.
“Nice socks, Kristen.”
Fernanda and Carlo are taking the same car to the airport. It gives us a little longer to chat. We part inside the airport.
Once I’ve dumped my check in bag, I pick up some sweets for Alexei. It’s a good way of getting rid of the $5,000 note.
Just as I’m approaching the immigration booth someone shouts "Ron, Ron."
It makes me jump a bit. Do they realise I’ve two keys of coke in my
carry on? I look around, nervously. It’s two of my fellow conference
attendees in the queue.
We bump into each other in the duty free. They’re tasting whisky and
invite me to join them. They’re both Argentinian heading back to Buenos
Aires. The one has a brewery there. Very tiny. But he’s also studying.
One tells me the simultaneous Spanish translation of my talk wasn’t
great. They missed out all of the swearing. “It totally ruined it.” I
believe him. The swearing was an integral part. Like the mortal in a
wall. The thing that holds all the boring bricks together.
I ask if they fancy having a drink. As you do. But they’re cutting it
really fine. Their gate closes in 20 minutes. I walk with them towards
their gate a bit, sussing out my bar options. We say our goodbyes and I
plonk myself down at the bar of Ruby Tuesday. I know. But it’s here and
has alcohol.
I order a pisco sour. The barkeep says something. I don’t quite get it.
She repeats it then, realising I’m an idiot or non-Spanish speaker,
points at the menu: “Alcoholic drinks only with food” in English. OK.
I order the smallest portion of deep fried mozzarella sticks and a pisco
sour Peruano. Which she makes I front of me? What is that powder?
There’s still loads left in the mixer after she’s filled my glass. I
wonder what’s going to happen to that? It doesn’t look very efficient.
Everton Arsenal is on the TVs behind the bar. Depressingly, the Arses
are winning. And are playing quite well, much as I hate to say that.
It’s much like being in the US, with the tellies behind the bar showing
games.
When I’m half way through my 8 sticks, I order a second pisco sour. The barkeep just pours more stuff into the mixer.
This time the leftovers don’t stay in the mixer. It’s need for something
else. She pours it carefully into a cup. Then makes some sort of drink
from fresh strawberries and a shitload of sugar. She tastes it by using a
straw as a pipette. No more adjustments, so she must have got it right
first time
Six sticks in, I order my third pisco sour. She pours the leftover mix
in the mug into the mixer and adds more shit. I’ve no problem with that.
I wouldn’t want to see booze thrown away.
I’ve still half a cheese thing when I order my fourth pisco sour. I
really don’t feel like eating any more, but I force it down. My drink,
miraculously, lasts until it’s time to head for my gate.
I picked up two bottles of pisco in the duty free. One for Andrew, one
for Alexei. I hope they enjoy them. And that Dutch customs don’t notice
that I’m over the limit.
The camera in the nose is working for takeoff. You can see the runway
speed by. After the traditional interminable taxi. Unfortunately, the
views it gives of the Andes are a bit flat.
Soon I’m up to my earpits in crappy, light films. My usual diet on
planes. We’re fed some not very good food, I grab a port, a wine, a
champagne and a cognac with it. To take away the taste, honestly.
Four hours into the flight, when the cabin lights go out, I decide its
kip time. I manage to drop off reasonably well. Not the most restful
sleep I’ve ever had, but good enough. I get up an hour or two before I
expect breakfast to be served. And watch another film. Some crap about
an American family smuggling weed from Mexico. It passes the time in a
numbing way.
Thirty minutes before brekkie, there’s an announcement. First in French.
Unfortunately, I get the gist “Urgence médicale” is pretty obvious.
Medical emergency. We’re diverting to an airport whose name I don’t
quite catch in French. When the announcement is made in English, I still
don’t get the name. But I can where it must be on the flight tracker:
The Azores.
It takes us about 45 minutes to get there and land. Another 30 minutes
to offload. Then they tell us we’ll have to get off while they refuel.
Buses take us to the terminal. Where nothing is open. Unsurprisingly, as
it’s the middle of the night here, around 3 AM.
I hear someone say” “So you’re on the same flight, Ron.”
It’s Dorothea Wächtler. She sits next to me and we start chatting. Should make the wait go more quickly.
“Refueling will take at least an hour.” I say, trying to be realistic. “I know that I’ll miss my connection.”
Dorothea has a connecting flight to Munich, which she’ll also miss. Then she has to drive to Bamberg. I don’t envy her.
“I’m not worried. There are plenty of flights to Amsterdam. I was much
more careful on the way out, leaving myself 5 hours for the change.” I
shouldn’t tempt fate.
“How did you get into beer? When was it?” She asks when we’re sat on the bus back to the plane.
“Ages ago. In the early 1970’s. I went to the first modern beer festival, Covent Garden in 1975.”
Dorothea is either impressed or appalled. It’s hard to read her face.
“Then I read Michael Jackson’s World Guide to Beer and my life changed forever.”
There’s that look again.
There’s nothing but apples and bread that I’d eat from the breakfast.
The pancakes struggling under waves of sweet gunk aren’t going anywhere
near my mouth. The orange juice is unnaturally sweet, too. My body is
longing for eggs and bacon and I get this crap.
I tell the stewardess I’ll miss my connection. “What should I do?” “Go
to one on the transfer machines and book another flight.” Great. That
doesn’t sound too bad.
We land at just before 11:00. I’m feeling a wee bit knacked. Despite the sleep.
Pretty soon I’m on a machine, my passport scanned and looking at the
rebooking options. The earliest is at 15:30. But that’s changing in
Toulouse. Which is just about 100% in the wrong direction. Next soonest
is via Birmingham. The earliest – and only – direct option is a KLM
flight at 20:15. Fuck. I’ll be in Charles de Gaulle all effing day.
OK, that look like the only option. I start going through the rebooking
process. It allocates be a middle seat. I hate that, so I try to change
it. But there are no other free seats. It looks like I got the last one.
I got the print boarding card panel. But instead of a boarding card it
spits out a piece of paper saying “irregularities with checked in
baggage – go to desk”.
Magic. Is my seat booked or not? There’s a crowd of 40 or 50 people
queueing at the desk. But luckily I can use the Sky Priority lane. There
only seven people waiting there. But most of the people behind the desk
are on the phone, trying to sort out something. It takes ages for each
passenger. It’s 40 minutes before it’s my turn. I hope there’s still a
seat.
I have been rebooked. Don’t know what that shit about luggage was as
they just print my boarding pass and give me a 15 euro food voucher.
Then I’m off to pier 2F.
But, as I’m passing from non-Schengen to Schengen, my luggage has to be
scanned. They test my duty free in some weird machine. Without opening
it they can tell it’s just booze and not an explosive or some other
nasty.
Once I’m through passport control it’s a short jump on the little train.
Then a convoluted walk of around a mile up and down stairs and along
weird corridors. With nothing as civilised as a moving walkway. This
airport is so utterly and totally dreadful.
2F has even fewer options than 2E, where I spent a miserable 5 hours
last week. This is shit. The only refreshment opportunities are two
cafeteria-like places. And the shop. And the duty-free.
I get a couple of cans and two baguettes in the shop. It comes to 17
euros. That voucher didn’t last long. I find a random seat and power up
my laptop. I ought to tell Dolores what’s happening. After a bit of
fiddling around, I get online and email Dolores. Then go on Twitter to
say how crap Charles de Gaulle airport. Plenty agree with me.
Every time I need to have a waz, or buy a beer, I have to pack up my
laptop and lug all my crap with me. I had two bags to start, now I’ve
one with sarnies and beer in it. What a pain.
I’m thinking of buying some miniatures, when I notice they have 200 ml
bottles of Bell’s for 7.20 euros. That’s not bad value. I get it and a
half litre bottle of diet coke from the shop. I’m very health conscious,
me. And a couple of cans and a sarnie. That’s me set.
Back at another random seat. Somewhere quiet, I guzzle down half the
coke and discretely refill with Bells. He presto. Coke plus. That’ll
keep me warm through the next dozen episodes of Rick & Morty.
The wifi is weird here. Quite crap, varying from zero to bugger ale
bandwidth. And it keeps dropping out altogether. It’s as if they’re
trying to encourage you to choose the pay service. Why would they do
that?
Watching Rick and Morty makes this whole experience bearable and fleeting. Exactly what I wanted.
The grandiose concrete crap reminds me of the Washington Metro. Which
can be equally impractical (ludicrously far underground at points,
probably to act as a nuclear bunker. Ditto the huge spaces
underground.) Though nothing can match Charles de Gaulle for form over
function, pretence over practicality, pride over prejudice. Crap in just
about everything. Including the placement of the bogs: downstairs. Very
wheelchair friendly.
The time doesn’t drag too badly. Especially after my whisky investment.
Now I think about it, the lack of a bar has probably saved me 70 to 80
euros.
I have to change seat once, when the wifi disappears and refuses to reconnect. What fun it is.
At least my flight is on time. Even better, my bag is already on the
carousel by the time I get there. This part of the journey has gone to
plan.
I jump in a taxi. No way I’m getting the bus. I’m way too tired for
that. Dolores seems relieved that I’ve made it home. The kids look
pleased, too. After I give them their pisco.
What a nightmare of a journey. 30 hours from leaving my hotel to falling
through my front door. It was worth it, mind. Chile was ace.
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